Hitting the Golf Ball Jackpot

Don't ask me if I play golf. Mostly, I just get exercise. When it comes to golf, I am a real swinger. I swing and miss. I swing and dig up the turf. I swing and shank the ball to one side or another. Certainly, I get lots of exercise!

I never take a cart. What's the use, if I only have to walk a few feet between shots?

Still, I love the scenery, and there's certainly nothing more picturesque than the panoramic countryside view from the third tee on my favorite course. The fairway arcs just slightly to the left, with a darling little bridge that spans a rustling creek.

What's in the Water?

Ah, yes, the water! That little rivulet is a veritable treasure trove. At dusk, just as the mosquito population emerges, unknown hobbyists don their rubber waders and venture into the water.

Are they angling for trout? Panning for gold? Collecting decorative rocks? Not at all! These surreptitious scavengers are hunting for errant golf balls.

My delinquent drives alone probably give these folks reason to rise each evening. Of course, that's exactly why I carry an esoteric assortment of logo-imprinted golf balls. Some of these remain from my days in corporate advertising, bearing names such as Allen-Bradley, Caterpillar, Engineering Daily, Industry Week, Navistar, and Wood Shop Digest. Others sport logos or emblems for everything from apple cider to zoo fund-raisers.

Friends and family members have presented me with pristine packages of fresh white golf balls with perfect dimples and unmarred printing. But where's the sport in that?

Here's a Game That's Even More Fun Than Golf

Meet Myron and Ralph. These two men retired several years ago from prominent corporate executive positions and moved with their wives to an exclusive gated Florida golf community, where they met one another.

On weekdays, you can find these two comrades, pulling a little red wagon along the outside of the fence that lines the 13^th and 16^th fairways and picking up stray golf balls. On Saturdays, Myron and Ralph set up shop in a rented booth at the local flea market and sell their findings. They advertise their spherical surprises as No-Water Balls, claiming they have stayed out of the drink.

I guess old entrepreneurs never die. Perhaps they just begin selling stray golf balls.

Myron and Ralph think they're pretty smart fellows.

But I know something Myron and Ralph do not know. Two other retirees, Tom and Carl, visit the used golf ball stand at the flea market each week and purchase a big bag of balls from Myron and Ralph. While the flea market is still open, before Myron and Ralph return home, Tom and Carl work their magic with the golf balls.

Tom and Carl take the used balls and drop them in the grass, all the way down the outside fence-line by the 13^th and 16^th fairway.

See those two guys sitting on the patio, just this side of the 16^th tee and chuckling at the two guys picking up lost balls? You guessed it! That's Tom and Carl.

If they would just pull the shades, even for a moment, I could sneak out there and score a couple dozen great golf balls. The next time I tee off into the creek, I would not care at all!